When my daughter was born, I was young and scared. At 23 I studied how to be an adult I'm still learning how to raise a child. Motherhood felt huge and uncertain, like entering a life that expected everything from me even before I knew who I was.
Seventeen years later I I had a second child. This time I'm over 40, older and wiser.
There's something unusual about become a mother again almost two decades later. The world seems different and I am different.
My daughter and I grew up together
Each stage of my daughter's life reflected one of my own transformations. When she started school, I returned to university to complete my teacher training, choosing a path that allowed me to share the same celebrations and rhythms of her world. While she was making friends, I was also learning who I was. When she entered high school, I became a leader, becoming the head of the department. She's seen me break, recover, and blossom, all before she came of age.
The author said she was grateful that she and her firstborn were able to travel to so many places together. Courtesy of Frankie Sama
There was a time when my anxiety was so bad that even leaving the house seemed impossible. But now she saw how I carried us across continents. Together we climbed glaciers, rowed through the turquoise waters of the Caribbean Sea, received the blessing of monks in a Buddhist temple, I was on safari in Savannah and volunteered at orphanages and women's shelters.
We now live in East Africa, where mornings begin with birdsong and sunsets turn golden. She watched me turn fear into freedom and learned that courage can be quiet, that determined decision to keep moving forward even when it would be easier to stay put.
Sometimes I wish I could be the woman I am now, more confident and with the wisdom to guide me. But when I look back, I see a different kind of beauty in it. an earlier version of me. I loved my daughter madly, even when I didn't fully love myself. And she learned that love is not perfection; it's about showing up again and again, even when you're scared.
I started a new chapter that I never expected
For many years I thought my story as a mother was already written. Life took an unexpected turn and I quietly came to terms with the idea that there would no longer be another chapter of parenting.
Then I met someone new. His smile, his warmth, his quiet charisma caught me off guard in the most endearing way. I didn't mean to start over, but life has a way of surprising you when you stop expecting it.
And suddenly he was there. My tiny miracle that I never dared to imagine. I was middle-aged, feeling comfortable for the first time and holding a beautiful boy in my arms.
It took us all the time to adjust
When I first told my daughter that she would get a brother or sisterI saw a storm pass over her face. It wasn't really anger; it was more confusion and pain. For 17 years it was just us, our rhythm. My news rewrote her world overnight.
During pregnancy I felt enormous guilt. Guilt for not giving her the perfect childhood I always wanted for her. Guilt for not giving away her siblings sooner. Guilt for taking away “just me and her” that had defined our little universe for so long.
The author said it took her and her daughter time to adjust to having another sibling in the family. Courtesy of Frankie Sama
But love is a patient teacher, and over time it has shown me that families can expand without collapsing. There is room for new beginnings without erasing what came before.
Now, I watch them together fills me with such gratitude that I cannot express in words. She is seventeen years older, but she holds it as if it had always been in her hands.
Motherhood is different this time.
Now motherhood seems calmer and more mindful. I am in no hurry to do everything perfectly and measure myself by invisible standards. I trust my instincts in a way I couldn't before.
The days still blur together, but I don't want them to disappear; I know how quickly they pass. When I know who I am, peace comes and it allows me to love without the same fear or self-doubt. This time I'm not trying to prove that I can handle it all; I just let myself be here, holding him.
The author said she was able to slow down and take her time with her son, who was born 17 years after her daughter. Courtesy of Frankie Sama
Now I go on picnics and read books under the trees, teaching my son about the shapes of clouds and the names of birds. We sit in silence and I let the moments linger. I remember that I was always in a hurry with my first one, I'm in a hurry from something to the next, thinking I need to achieve more, do more, make more money so I can give her a better life. Looking back, I see that she had an extraordinary case. She grew up with love, adventure, and resilience—all the things that truly matter. I think maybe I was the one who needed to slow down, to realize that “better” doesn’t always mean “more.”
Raising children 17 years apart has reminded me that life has its seasons. It humiliates you. It splits you in ways you never expected.
My daughter got the raw, unedited version of me, full of nerves, love and trial by fire. My son gets a calmer, more seasoned version, softer around the edges and graceful.
But both have the same heart, they are just written in different chapters. In a way, they are the bookends of my formative years.
